Chapter 3: Red Clay and Broken Promises
The heat in Atlanta hits you differently than the heat in Chicago. In Chicago, it’s an annoyance; in Georgia, it’s a physical weight. It smells of pine needles, asphalt, and damp earth. It’s a heat that slows time down, making every movement feel like you’re wading through molasses.
I wrestled my rental car—a Chevy Tahoe that smelled faintly of vanilla air freshener—through the labyrinth of Hartsfield-Jackson’s pick-up lanes. When I pulled up to the curb, Mrs. Etta and the twins looked small against the backdrop of concrete pillars and idling buses.
“Get in,” I said, popping the trunk.
We loaded the bags. The twins, Maya and Zoe, were quieter now. The adrenaline of the flight and the Captain’s intervention had worn off, replaced by the exhaustion that only grieving children know. They climbed into the back seat, their gold pilot wings still pinned crookedly to their lace collars.
“Where to?” I asked, putting the car in drive.
Etta handed me a crumpled piece of paper. “Freeman & Sons Funeral Home. On Ralph David Abernathy Boulevard. The viewing is… the viewing is tonight. They kept the doors open late for us.”
I punched the address into the GPS. Twenty minutes.
As we merged onto the highway, the Atlanta skyline rose up—gleaming glass towers surrounded by a sea of green trees. The traffic was the usual snarled mess of red taillights, a river of blood flowing slowly into the heart of the city.
“You mentioned a son-in-law,” I said gently, keeping my eyes on the road. “Dante?”
Etta stiffened in the passenger seat. She was staring out the window, watching the billboards for personal injury lawyers and fast food joints blur past.
“Dante,” she said, the name tasting like ash in her mouth. “He’s… he’s Corinne’s mistake. I shouldn’t say that. He gave me those two angels in the back. But the man has never finished a thing in his life.”
“Is he going to be there?”
“He said he handled the arrangements,” Etta said, her voice tight. “He said he used the insurance money to pay Mr. Freeman. He said, ‘Mama Etta, you just get here, I got the rest.’” She let out a short, bitter laugh. “We’ll see.”
I looked in the rearview mirror. The girls were asleep. They were leaning against each other, mouths slightly open, holding hands across the center console.
“Why are you doing this, Sarah?” Etta asked suddenly. She didn’t look at me.
It was the question I had been asking myself since I stood up in Row 12. Why didn’t I just go to my hotel? Why was I driving a stranger’s family to a funeral home?
“I have a little sister,” I said. The lie came easy, but the truth was harder. I corrected myself. “I had a little sister. Her name was Emily.”
Etta turned her head.
“She died when we were kids,” I said, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Car accident. My parents… they fell apart. Grief makes people do ugly things, or it makes them disappear. I spent a lot of time sitting in waiting rooms and funeral parlors by myself while my folks fought about money and fault.”
I glanced at the sleeping twins.
“I know what it feels like to be small and scared in a room full of adults who are yelling,” I said. “When that man on the plane started screaming… it just brought it all back. I couldn’t leave them.”
Etta reached out and placed her hand on my arm. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. In the South, touch is a language all its own.
Freeman & Sons was a brick building that looked more like a manor house than a place of business. It sat on a hill, surrounded by old oak trees draped in Spanish moss that looked like grey ghosts in the twilight.
The parking lot was empty except for a beat-up Dodge Charger with tinted windows.
“That’s him,” Etta sighed. “That’s Dante’s car.”
We parked. I helped wake the girls. They were groggy, rubbing their eyes, their white dresses wrinkled from the travel.
“Are we seeing Mommy now?” Zoe asked, her voice trembling.
“Yes, baby,” Etta said, smoothing Zoe’s hair. “But remember, it’s just her shell. Her spirit is flying free. Like we were.”
We walked up the steps. The heavy wooden doors opened, and the smell hit me instantly—lilies and floor wax. The scent of finality.
A man in a black suit met us in the foyer. He looked tired but professional. This was Mr. Freeman.
“Mrs. Jenkins,” he said, bowing his head. “I am so sorry for your loss. You made good time.”
“Thank you for waiting, Mr. Freeman,” Etta said. “Is… is everything ready?”
Mr. Freeman hesitated. He glanced toward the double doors of the viewing room, then back at Etta. He looked uncomfortable.
“The deceased is prepared,” he said carefully. “She looks beautiful, Mrs. Jenkins. But… we have a slight administrative issue regarding the service tomorrow.”
Etta’s back straightened. “What issue?”
“The payment,” Freeman said, lowering his voice. “Mr. Williams—Dante—he’s in the viewing room now. He informed us that the life insurance policy is… under review. The credit card he provided earlier was declined.”
Etta closed her eyes. I saw the rage ripple under her skin like a current.
“How much?” I asked.
“For the casket, the embalming, the use of the chapel tomorrow… the balance is four thousand five hundred.”
Etta didn’t have it. I knew she didn’t have it. She had spent everything on the plane tickets.
“Let me talk to him,” Etta said, her voice deadly calm. “Girls, you stay here with Miss Sarah for a minute.”
Etta marched into the viewing room.
I stood in the lobby with the twins. The silence was heavy.
“I want to go in,” Maya said. She was the brave one, I realized. Zoe felt everything, but Maya wanted to confront it.
“Just a minute, sweetie,” I said.
Then, the shouting started.
It wasn’t Etta screaming. It was a man’s voice. Deep, raspy, and slurring.
“Don’t you come in here telling me about money, old woman! That’s my wife in that box!”
I looked at the girls. Their eyes went wide.
“Stay here,” I commanded. “Sit on this bench. Do not move.”
I walked to the double doors and pushed them open.
The room was dimly lit, filled with rows of empty velvet chairs. At the front, surrounded by standing sprays of flowers (including a massive arrangement of white roses that must have been from the man on the plane), lay a silver casket. It was open.
Standing next to it was a man who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Dante. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, his dreadlocks pulled back in a messy tie. He was handsome, in a rugged way, but his eyes were bloodshot and wild. He smelled of bourbon and stale smoke.
Etta stood five feet away from him, her handbag clutched like a weapon.
“You promised, Dante,” Etta hissed. “You told me it was handled. I flew these babies down here on my last dime.”
“The insurance company is screwing me!” Dante yelled, throwing his hands up. “They said it takes thirty days! What do you want me to do, Etta? Rob a bank?”
“I want you to be a father!” Etta shouted back, her composure finally cracking. “I want you to bury your wife with dignity instead of drinking yourself stupid in the parking lot!”
“Don’t you talk to me about dignity!” Dante stepped forward, looming over her. “You hated me from day one! You never thought I was good enough for Corinne!”
“You aren’t!” Etta cried.
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